Hiding His Wolf [Urban Affairs 4] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour ManLove) (5 page)

Logically Levi knew that there was a difference between giving up some control in a physical encounter and completely surrendering like…like a slave.
Like Noah.
That was the problem. He kept putting himself in Noah’s place—a helpless slave with no will of his own. Maybe if he could look into Black’s eyes, he could at least establish an illusion of power-sharing that would make him more comfortable. He struggled to turn, but Simon wouldn’t release his tight grip. Christ, he was strong. A shudder ran through Levi’s body as he felt his muscles contract and release. His wolf wanted out. Levi tensed and exerted a great force of will to keep the enraged animal inside him.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Simon rubbed an impressive erection against his ass, and a shiver of anticipation shot right to Levi’s groin. The man’s heavy weight settled against his back, giving off a possessive, demanding vibe that made Levi’s cock fill. Good thing this human couldn’t scent his pheromones.

“I want to fuck you.” Simon’s voice throbbed in his ear.

Levi couldn’t help the groan that escaped his mouth, or the growl that followed it.

“Very sexy.”
A tongue traced his earlobe, and then teeth nipped at Levi’s neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake. “Put your hands up on the wall.”

Levi did as he was told, and a muscular thigh pressed between Levi’s legs, spreading them apart. A hand came around his waist to unzip his pants. He went commando, and there was no obstruction to the big hand searching for his aching shaft. Harsh animal sounds escaped the back of his throat and Levi pressed his hot flesh further into Simon’s hand.

“Like that, do you?” Simon’s voice took on a rough tone.

Levi bit his lip to hold back a startled cry when Simon increased the pressure on his cock.

“I thought so. As soon as I laid eyes on you, I knew you weren’t into gentle.” Simon released his prick and moved his hand down farther to capture his sac. He squeezed, making Levi squirm in his grasp. But Levi’s writhing and incoherent noises just made Simon rub and squeeze harder. A finger crept behind his balls, tracing the taint. Levi groaned as Simon rubbed the sensitive flesh that led to his asshole. Suddenly, the long digit penetrated past the tight muscle, stroking the wall inside, and making Levi moan even louder.

This was what Levi had been missing—a masculine touch other than his own. Simon seemed to know exactly what effect he was having on Levi. Every touch was calculated to produce a whimper or a groan. Torn between the desire for more and a wolfish urge to turn and attack, Levi was caught totally off balance.

Suddenly, Simon pulled away, sliding his finger out of Levi’s tight sheath of muscle.

“Fuck!” Levi protested, his squirming body searching for the lost touch.

“Patience, baby. I won’t leave you hanging.”

Levi’s black shirt was yanked up and off, exposing his torso. The chill of the night air and the friction of the rough brick on his nipples sent shudders through his body. Simon’s big, warm hands explored his chest, rubbing and pinching the tight nubs. Without warning, teeth sank into the tender flesh of his shoulder, and then a wet tongue soothed the bite. Simon had zeroed in on his tattoo, and for a second Levi tensed. But Levi liked a little pain with his pleasure and the sensation drove everything else from his mind. It was a huge turn-on, taking Levi closer to the edge of a climax.

Simon continued to lick and suck at Levi’s neck and ears, ignoring his pleas for release. Finally, Simon hooked his thumbs in Levi’s pants and shoved them down over his hips. Levi heard the rasp of Simon’s zipper going down, and
his heart thudded like crazy at the prospect of
being fucked in a place where anyone could discover them.

A hard steel column of flesh rode the crease of Levi’s ass. “Want me?” Simon muttered harshly.

“Fuck yeah!” It had been a long time since Levi had been with someone who made him feel like this.

Levi heard a foil packet being torn behind him. He almost cried out and told Simon that it wasn’t necessary, but he stopped himself just in time.
Calm down, boy
. Damn, he was way too anxious for this. Then Levi’s legs were forced apart and the broad head of a cock pressed for entrance. A grunt and a thrust and Simon barreled past the tight ring of muscle, burying his length to the base.

Levi couldn’t help crying out. He gritted his teeth to stem his scream and the burn of penetration quickly turned to pleasure.

“So tight, so fucking tight.” Simon began to pound into him relentlessly, pushing him against the bricks. “So hot inside you.”

Each strong thrust massaged Levi’s sweet spot and made him gasp. His rarely used ass welcomed the punishment that drove him closer to the edge with each new assault. “Fuck. Black, I need to come.”

“That’s it, baby. Tell me what you need.”

Suddenly Levi’s cock was caught in a tight, warm grip. Simon’s thumb rubbed the leaking pre-cum over the head. Nuzzling Levi’s sweaty neck, Simon spread the drops of fluid over Levi’s shaft and worked him hard. Levi, impaled on the long, thick rod inside him, forgot where he was, forgot everything but the man who possessed him. He didn’t care who might hear him, and Simon added his own excited pants and grunts to Levi’s strangled cries.

One more hard thrust and Levi let out a shrill scream as he climaxed. For a few seconds he couldn’t breathe, his release was so intense. Simon followed, and Levi felt every inch of the human’s cock ram deep as it exploded inside him.

Simon pulled out abruptly but Levi remained still, enjoying the aftermath of his orgasm. The night air cooled his sweat soaked back as he rested his forehead on the bricks. Missing Simon’s warmth, he pushed himself away from the wall and turned to reach for him.

He was alone in the alley.

Hoboken,
New Jersey

Jordan Kendall had become extremely adept at juggling an extra-large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, a jelly-filled donut, and his briefcase while sliding his key into the lock. Small wonder. In his six years as a reporter for the Hoboken Bulletin, his morning routine had never changed. A creature of habit, he liked it that way, but now he feared that his world was turning upside down and nothing would ever be the same again.

Just like always, he entered his office without dropping anything. He set his coffee and donut on the desk, his briefcase on the floor, and Jordan hung his sport coat over the back of his chair, before taking a seat at his cluttered desk. Waiting for his computer to boot up, he stared at the blank wall in front of him and imagined the framed certificate that used to hang there—the Journalistic Award for Excellence. It had been presented to him for his series of articles on the Federal conspiracy against the Were population.

Jordan sighed heavily. He took off his horn-rimmed glasses and cleaned them meticulously before replacing them on his face. When his spirits were down, he had no desire to work. A smear campaign had been going on for weeks, spreading vicious allegations about him and calling his work a pack of lies. The award had been taken away, pending an investigation.
Bill Butcher, his editor, knew the truth and still stood behind him, but how long would that last?

Jordan turned on the desk lamp, and the dim light illuminated a jumble of notes, newspapers, and correspondence. He grabbed a hand-addressed envelope from the top of the pile, tore it open, and began to pull out a letter. A white powdery substance spilled out of the folds and floated onto his hand.

Anthrax?

Fear such as he’d never felt before swamped his body. Jordan jerked his hand back and let the letter drop onto the desk. The motes floated in the air. Not wanting to breathe in the particles, he held his breath, while his heart thumped in an erratic rhythm. It was probably talc, but real or not, he couldn’t take a chance. Getting up from his seat, he grabbed his jacket and briefcase before walking out of the room and pulling the door shut behind him. He went straight to the men’s room and washed his hands, then his face. He stayed there a long time. Should he call the police? Why bother? He suspected the anthrax scare had been sent by the Feds.

Scare tactics and acts of intimidation had become commonplace in his life. A dead rat had been left in his mailbox, and the inbox of his computer was always full of hate mail and threats. Thank God he didn’t have any family his tormentors could go after.

Instead of going back to his office, he went to see his editor. Bill, the person who injected reason and sanity into his life, always made him feel better. He knocked on the door and heard Bill’s voice telling him to come in.

Bill Butcher was standing by the window looking outside. His tall, skeletal frame seemed fragile in relief. Jordan told him about the letter, and Bill said he would take care of it. By that, Jordan assumed Bill meant to call the authorities. The editor finally turned around, and he pulled on his handlebar mustache, a nervous habit that Jordan recognized. Jordan knew by the look on Bill’s face what was coming.

“I’ve been asked to let you go, Jordan. It’ll be easier if you resign.”

Jordan had been expecting this for weeks, but it still came as a shock. Bill
was between a rock and a hard place. Jordan couldn’t blame him.
The man had
a family, a wife and three kids. No doubt they had been threatened and Bill
panicked. In his shoes, Jordan would do the same to protect his loved ones.

“I’ve typed up a letter. All you have to do is sign it, and I’ll do my best to keep the publisher from filing criminal charges.” Bill shrugged helplessly. “I’m so sorry.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but he closed his mouth and walked out. What was there left to say?

Jordan picked up the statement that Bill had typed. He stared at the words for a long time.

“The incidents in the article did not happen. I misrepresented the entire situation to further my career. I understand the gravity of my position, and I want to apologize to everyone I let down, especially my editor and the readers. I am resigning my position as staff writer at the
Hoboken Bulletin
.”

His career was destroyed, but Jordan wouldn’t go down without a fight. He had some savings that would tide him over until he could find another job. Maybe he’d even finish up that book he’d started. The non-fiction tome expanded on his articles. He wondered if anyone would publish it.
Fuck it!
He’d publish it himself if he had to. Jordan scribbled his name at the bottom of the resignation letter and threw it on the desk. He grabbed his jacket and briefcase and walked out the door.

* * * *

DSA New York Office

Simon sat in the reception area and admired Richard Graham’s executive assistant. David, a blue-eyed blond, in perfectly tailored clothes, was not only good looking but appeared to be a real workaholic. While Simon waited, David went through the mail, screened incoming calls and made travel arrangements. What Simon wouldn’t give to have someone like that manage his affairs. He had no
permanently assigned aide. Simon made do with
the secretarial pool. Maybe when I’m the boss…

“Mr. Black.” David’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Mr. Graham will see you now.”

Simon thanked the aide, straightened his tie, and opened the door to the inner sanctum. He greeted the director of the Division of Shifter Affairs, who told him to take a seat. When Graham
offered him a drink, he knew the director was pleased with his performance.
Graham was not an easy man to please, so Simon gave himself a mental pat on the back.

Originally, the DSA, an offshoot of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had been set up as a watchdog unit to monitor the Were population. According to intel, the growing community of shifters, especially the wolves, had formed a resistance movement, and they were preparing for an armed rebellion. To combat the growing threat, the DSA had grown in scope. T
eams were being trained to fight the sinister menace posed by animal-shifters, and Graham had started experimenting with behavior modification and animal training. Some of his unorthodox methods had gotten bad publicity and had put the whole department in a bad light. Thanks to Simon, that was no longer the case.

Now h
e was Graham’s golden boy, the man who
could do no wrong. It was no
small feat. Black had risen in the ranks so quickly he even surprised himself. By turning around the whole lousy Dogtown fiasco, he’d proven to Graham that he was a fixer, a man the director could depend on. Of course it didn’t hurt that his father was a congressman. Simon and his father were not on the best of terms, but Graham wouldn’t know that and the director would kiss anybody’s ass to get money for his pet projects.

The bad publicity had started when Graham tried to frame two former DSA agents and a club owner in Dogtown. Somehow the men, two Werewolves and a human, had gotten a reporter to document their story, and the situation had blown up in Graham’s face. It appeared that the director was headed for early retirement.

But Simon had stepped in and saved Graham’s ass. Scaring off the reporter didn’t work. Jordan Kendall was a stubborn asshole who wouldn’t back down, so Simon went after the editor. Bill Butcher had a family to worry about, and he caved quickly. A retraction had been printed, and Graham had saved face. Simon had done such a good job, he’d almost put that local rag in New Jersey out of business. And even better, all the good Werewolf PR had gone down the tubes and Dogtown had a big target on it once again. Now Graham was sitting pretty, and he owed it all to Simon. It was a damn good feeling to be in this position. If Simon couldn’t be the man in charge, then being the director’s right hand was a good substitute—at least for now. Maybe in a few years when he was a little older and had a few more successful jobs under his belt, he might be sitting behind the director’s desk.